Shadows of the South
by Shunyata Ryuen
Summary: In the pre-Civil War South, a young slave dresses her son in girl's clothing to spare him from a cruel fate in the fields. Disguised as a female, he meets a beautiful young man, heir to a plantation. Is it a sin, to love with the eyes of a free woman?
1. Prologue: Lies, Like Honey

Notes On This Story:  
  
[1] THE SETTING. This tale I'm about to share takes place in the pre-Civil War South. The precise state is unimportant, as is the precise date. All you need to know is that slavery is running rampant, and the majority of the South is blissfully unaware that their entire world is going to be upturned sometime in the near future.   
  
[2] THE CHARACTERS. Now, naturally, we're all quite aware that no one in the pre-Civil War South had names like "Nuriko" or "Hotohori" or "Chichiri." However, to avoid reader confusion, that little detail is going to be overlooked in this fic. Names are not time-period or country appropriate, but it's a small detail that I doubt will hinder the story.  
  
[3] THE WARNINGS. Beware of language, racial tension, and eventual shounen ai.   
  
[4] THE DISCLAIMER. Fushigi Yuugi's characters do not belong to me, and neither, alas, does any portion of the pre-Civil War South. As it is, I'm no great authority on this time period, nor do I claim to get all details accurate and perfect to the satisfaction of all history buffs that may glimpse these words. The various dialects have been mostly ignored, as have--as previously mentioned--historically-accurate names. My aim here is not to be precise, not to create a historical essay on slavery and its ramifications. My aim is to tell a story. So, sit back, relax, and read onwards, and I'll do just that.  
  
---  
  
Shadows of the South  
by Ryuen  
  
~*~  
  
PROLOGUE: Lies, Like Honey  
  
  
"Precious pain, empty and cold but it keeps me alive  
I gave it my soul so that I could survive  
Keeping me safe in these chains, precious pain."  
-Melissa Etheridge  
  
~*~  
  
His mother's fingers were cold and rigid against his shoulders, the pricks of her nails clawing into his skin until he nearly cried out from the pain. Her eyes were wide and dark above him, her lips pressed together into a thin line, and although he was barely five years old he understood, somehow, that Mama was upset, and it was his fault.   
  
When she spoke, her voice wavered.  
  
"Honey," she whispered. Urgency touched at the word he'd heard so many times, tinged it with the soot and ash of fear. "Honey, please. Listen to me. You got to do what Mama says, okay? Okay?"  
  
Mama's head was nodding up and down, begging him to agree, and so he did. He lifted his chin, brought it down hard, and the tense smile that touched her lips at that burst into him like happiness.  
  
"Good," she said. "Good. Good boy. Now, listen to me, okay, Nuriko? I need you to go over there and take that and put it on. Okay?"  
  
The five-year-old followed his mother's gaze across the sparse living quarters--dirt floor, moldy wooden planks for the walls, a simple cot for the three (two, his mind corrected. two.) of them, and a small, unsturdy table and chairs set. His eyes came to rest on the simple cotton dress, lying crumpled and forgotten on Kourin's chair, and his body went rigid.   
  
"But...but, Mama," he whispered. "That's Ko--"  
  
"No," Mama insisted, clenching her nails into his flesh. "No. You got to forget about her, you hear me? You got to forget about her an' not say a word about her when the men are here, a'right, Nuriko? A'right? You got to remember! An'...an', I know it's gonna be hard, but, honey, you got to put that dress on and come stand by me over here for when the men come in, okay? Please, honey?"  
  
He felt his lower lip beginning to waver, the wound of his sister's death still a great, painful darkness within him. "B-But, Mama--"  
  
From outside, there came the clomping of heavy boots, the rumble of men's voices.  
  
"NOW!" Mama hissed. "Now! Please, honey!"  
  
He was shaking, the sobs building like storm clouds in his throat, but he nodded, hurried over to the chair and grabbed the dress into his small fingers. Mama was moving very quickly, looking scared and anxious and like she was about to burst into tears herself, but her hands were steady enough as she grabbed onto the muddied corners of his shirt and ripped it up over his head.   
  
Meanwhile, outside, the footsteps were getting closer, thudding up the wooden planks that had been slammed down on top of the mud, coming towards the door...  
  
"Hurry!" Mama whispered again. "Please please please, Nuriko, hurry. Mama's got to go answer the door, but please please please put it on now, Nuriko, please!" And, then, she was scurrying away from him, tiptoeing to the door with fingers kneading nervously at her apron, and he knew that he was going to have to do the rest alone.  
  
The tears were welling beneath his eyelids as he peeled the breeches from his legs, kicked them into the corner with the shirt, and lifted the dress into the air. Lord, it still smelled like her, like earth and lilacs and flour, and suddenly he was standing beside her again, gazing down at her pale skin and her breathless lungs and her wide, empty, sightless eyes, and Mama was holding onto his shoulders and crying into his hair, and it was just like when Papa died, just like it except now it was wrenching at his heart with pain he couldn't understand but which he knew was real and not a dream, not a dream, not a dream--  
  
A heavy fist pounded on the door. Mama jumped, spinning around with wide eyes to look at him, and so he closed his eyes and pulled on the dress and swallowed back the tears. Mama had run to his side and grabbed onto his arm and was leading him up towards the front of the shack when the door flapped open, and two big men stepped inside.  
  
And, just like that, Mama was normal again, her voice high and formal, her eyes cast respectfully downwards. "H'llo, Masters," she said, granting the intruders a brief curtsey. "What can I do for ya?"   
  
Five years didn't give him much perspective on the identities of the Masters, but he knew enough of them to know that the tall blond man with the strangely-pretty face was the Big Master's brother, and that the shorter one, the one with the fiery red hair and the kind eyes, was the Big Master's cousin, and he was in charge of the stables.   
  
Big Master's Brother took a long step into the shack, his black boots sending little pieces of dirt fluttering up into the air in little clouds. Nuriko sneezed.  
  
"Bless ya," the redhead said.  
  
Big Master's Brother gave him a scathing look, then turned back to the two slaves and stared at them with hatred in his eyes. "I was told," he rumbled, "that you had a son."  
  
Mama's eyes went down even farther, so far that her chin almost touched against the faded green neckline of her dress. "I did," she murmured, real grief in her voice. "He died o'pneumonia, jus' a few days ago."  
  
The redhead pulled the hat from his head and touched it to his chest. "That's @(#*&$ awful," he said. "Another one, you hear that, Nakago? How old was he?"  
  
"Jus' barely four," Mama whispered. "His Papa passed last June, so at least...at least, he won't be alone...up there."  
  
Big Master's Cousin shook his head, spent a moment in silence staring at the ground. "That's @(*&@#$ awful," he said at last. "@(*&@$ awful."  
  
Nakago's eyes were still dark and narrowed, his arms folded like heavy branches over his chest. Suddenly, he took a long step forward, dropped to one knee in front of the five-year-old, and stared up at him. Nuriko froze in fear. His mother's grip on his fingers was growing painfully tight, keeping him rooted to the spot despite all his desires to run away, and then suddenly it was like he was hearing her voice in his head, hearing her saying, "Please, Nuriko. Please please please..."  
  
Her glanced up at her, very briefly, and found her eyes wide and afraid. Please, Nuriko, they begged. Please...  
  
And, so, he didn't move. Even though he wanted to step back or lash out or just curl into a ball on the floor and cry, he didn't. He stood as still as he could, lifted his chin into the air, and let the big man study him. Even if his heart was clenching in fear. Even if it was all he could do not to cry out.  
  
"Bold little girl," Nakago said after a moment. His lips were twisted upwards into a slight smile. "Undersized..." His eyes flitted to Nuriko's fingers, which--although they were slowly fading to white as the bloodflow was cut off--clenched around his mother's hand just as tightly as hers did his. The man's smile bent a little. "But, obviously stronger than she looks. She would make a fine field worker."  
  
The redhead cleared his throat loudly, a frown working at his lips. "Nakago, what the @(*#$& are you talkin' about? You know Tama never likes the girls to be workin' in the fields." He grunted. "It's men's work, ya know? @#(*$&, she'll prob'ley end up in the House with Miaka and the other women once she's old enough, you know that."   
  
The smile faded slowly from Nakago's face. "Of course," he said coolly. "I appreciate the reminder, Tasuki."  
  
"'Course you do. Anyway, c'mon. Let's get goin', huh? I'm gettin' @(*#$&$ hungry."  
  
"Of course." As he rose to his feet, however, his eyes shifted suddenly to Mama. "How old is the girl?"  
  
Mama didn't hesitate. "Jus' turned five years old on Saturday."  
  
"Interesting," Nakago murmured. "Just old enough--" He glanced at Tasuki. "--were she a boy, of course--to start work in the fields. As it is, she'll have to be moved into the House to work with the women." His lip curled. "A pity. I'd have enjoyed...working with her."  
  
Tasuki was frowning again. "@#$*(&, Nakago, why do ya keep talkin' like that? She's a @#($*&@$ girl. C'mon, let's finish up so I can eat, okay?"  
  
"Very well," Nakago said. His eyes, however, were locked on Nuriko, and his voice was low and dangerous. "She'll be well-cared for, working in the kitchen with the women. Which is just as well, I suppose. Fieldwork is not for the weak. It would be a shame for you to lose another member of your family to it."  
  
Mama's hand went slack in his fingers. Peering up at her, he could see that her jaw was clenched, her eyes dark and fearful...but, there was something like determination there; something like strength. "It wasn't the work that killed 'im," she whispered. Anger flashed in the dark pools of her eyes.  
  
"Of course, it was," Nakago answered smoothly. "What else could it have been?" His eyes flickered over his shoulder, noticed Tasuki fidgeting in the doorway. "There's no need to worry over this child," he said quietly, the light dancing in his eyes, twisting into shadow. "I'll be sure to keep a close watch on her." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "As you should keep a close watch on yourself."  
  
Then, the man turned, slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and stalked out of the shack. Tasuki followed just behind him, tipping his hat a bit in farewell, and the door of the shack shuddered closed.  
  
~*~  
  
  
AN: Chapter One shall follow shortly. Ah, and just so you're aware, this story will not take place in the time it begins--Nuriko will be about sixteen when we pick up with him next, and the rest of the characters will, naturally, age accordingly. Until then, however, please, let me know what you think. I have big plans for this story, but I'd appreciate any comments or criticisms. Does the story interest you? Does it grab your attention? Does it just lay there with its tongue flapping out and stare at you with big xes over its eyes?? Let me know. I need to know these things.   
  
Ah, and by the way, the majority of the Fushigi Yuugi characters -will- be appearing in this fic, with the possible exception of Miboshi, simply because I just don't know what the hell to do with the freaky little tyke. -_-;;; But, anyway, enough rambling. *flits off* 


	2. Chapter One: Honey, Like Lies

---  
  
Shadows of the South  
  
  
Chapter One: Honey, Like Lies  
  
"What do I have to tell you   
I'm just trying to hold on to something  
Trying to hold on to something good  
Give us a chance to make it."  
-John Secada, Just Another Day  
  
~*~   
  
Greying hair hanging low over his eyes, the man bent over the stack of papers and studied the figures with a narrowed gaze. His lips moved lightly as he read, and a low muttering worked from his throat, but other than that, the immense study was silent. And, then, the door squeaked open.  
  
Tamahome glanced up, drawing the glasses from his nose as he did so, and watched as a tall, familiar figure stepped into the room. Flickers of afternoon sunlight flitted in through the picture windows behind the desk, washed over the boy's long, silky chestnut hair, glittered like gold in his eyes. Tamahome studied his eldest son as the boy entered, taking in the subtle strength to his movements, the elegance to his walk; the warm sheen of adulthood that was just starting to stretch over his features.   
  
Hotohori was almost a man, now. It was hard to believe.  
  
The sixteen-year-old moved to the edge of his father's desk, came to a slow halt just in front of it. The heels of his black riding boots clacked together with the motion. "Father," he said formally. His head ducked a bit, sending waves of silken chestnut whispering over his shoulders, fluttering out against the sunlight.  
  
Tamahome nodded. "Son."  
  
There was silence for a moment, Tamahome gazing out at the noble figure of his eldest son, Hotohori finding interesting spots on the wall to study--and, then, the younger man strode forward, not stopping until his thighs touched against the desk, and locked his father into his stare. His voice was firm; determined.  
  
"Father," said Hotohori with a great breath, "I've decided that I don't wish to go back to school."  
  
The older man nodded slightly. "All right."  
  
"And, I realize, Father, that we talked of me going to college someday and becoming a doctor like Grandfather, but I think now that I'd much rather--" The young man paused, the words hanging like soap bubbles before his face, and stared at his father in shock. "A...All right?"  
  
The older man nodded again. "Yes." He smiled a little. "Miaka told me you were thinking about it, and I think it's an excellent idea."  
  
"An...an excellent idea?" Hotohori frowned. "Father, are you feeling all right?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Then..." The frown deepened, dragged at the young man's handsome features. "Then, you don't mind? You don't mind if I stay here on the plantation and don't become a doctor? You don't care about that?"  
  
"No, not at all. What's important is what you want, right, son?" A sly grin worked at the man's lips. "Besides, that boarding school was costing a fortune, and cotton sales are down this year..."  
  
Hotohori smiled. "That's better."  
  
Tamahome, having been scribbling figures on a piece of paper as quickly as his hand would move, stopped and glanced up. "What's that? What's better?"  
  
The sixteen-year-old only smiled, slid his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks, and shook his head. "It isn't important, Father. Anyway, I haven't eaten yet, so I think I'll go down to the kitchen and have Miaka fix me something." His lips twisted quizzically. "By the way, Father, how on earth did she know I was thinking of dropping out of school?"  
  
The man didn't glance up from his figures, but the blush that worked in his cheeks was more than explanation enough. "That woman knows everything, you know that." But, then, after a slight pause: "She said she overheard you talking to one of the kitchen girls." One eyebrow arched. "The 'pretty one?'"  
  
Hotohori flushed. "Nuriko," he said. "Is...is she new, Father? I don't remember her at all from before."  
  
"No, she's not new. But, then, you haven't exactly been around the Plantation very much over the past few years, have you? Or--" He smiled a little, and his eyes lifted from the papers, winked out at his eldest son. "--maybe you just weren't in the right frame of mind to notice her until now. She's very intelligent. Your grandfather was talking about teaching her medicine, of course, but then, that's his dream for every slave he comes to with half a brain."  
  
Suddenly seeming to remember something, the boy stood a little straighter. "That's right," he said. "Grandfather was teaching one of them medicine before I left, wasn't he? The...the man who drew your baths, wasn't it?"  
  
Tamahome offered a slight smile. "Mitsukake. Yes. Your grandfather taught him all he knew." His voice went soft. "It's strange. Your uncle is always telling me things about them having smaller brains than ours, but Lord, I've never seen anyone learn faster. I guess it just goes to show that not all slaves are stupid."  
  
At the mention of his uncle, Hotohori's face darkened. "And, not all white men are intelligent."  
  
"I can't argue with you there. But...anyway." His lips lifted into a wide, genuine smile. "It's good to have you home. Go get something to eat from the kitchen. And, I would hurry. Before Miaka eats it all."  
  
Hotohori returned the smile, nodded slightly to his father, and turned to leave. A few moments later, he was moving lightly down the grand staircase, and despite his hunger, all thoughts of food had fallen far from his mind. Lord. What was wrong with him, anyway? First, when he was young, there was that crush he had on Miaka--on Miaka!! A clutzy slave woman who ate too much and was twice his age, anyway! And, now... Gah. Now. Hotohori shook his head, coming to a slow halt at the bottom of the staircase, and let himself spend a moment praising God that his sister was out for the day. Yui was too good at reading him, even after all the years they'd spent apart. She would take one look at his face and know the who, the what, and probably have a good grasp on whatever secret opinions he might be holding onto. But, then, Yui was just irritating like that.  
  
He leaned his elbow against the banister, pressed his forehead to his arm, and closed his eyes.   
  
He'd only just gotten home, yesterday, from the hell that was boarding school. Good Lord, eleven years of his life, gone to that horrible place! It'd felt like a prison term, or, more accurately, like a continuous stretch of torture that paused only for the seven or so hours he spent sleeping--the boys had been obnoxious and officious, the teachers had been snobbish and close-minded, and Lord, being shoved into that cramped little chapel every morning and being forced to listen to an ancient man with bad hygiene preach on and on and on about the values of slavery and the importance of repetance and, aaaaaagggggh!!! Just thinking about the fact that he never had to return there, even coupled with all that currently weighed on his mind, brought a smile to his lips.   
  
That was one place he would -not- be missing.  
  
He'd known he was leaving for good, he supposed, when he was walking out the front door of the school a day ago. There'd been something like freedom in his heart, as he stepped out into the warm summer air--something like joy, and he'd known that, from that moment onwards, things would never be the same.   
  
And then, many hours later, he'd walked in through the back door of his house, stepped into Miaka's kitchen, and found himself face to face with the embodiment of beauty herself.  
  
Nuriko. Her name was Nuriko. She was of medium height and very slender, with long, silken dark hair that was often plaited into a braid. Her skin was smooth and warm and brown, soft and unblemished as his own, and a dark mole rested beneath her left eye. Her clothing, of course, was befitting a slave--simple, earth-tone dresses that hung like potato sacks over even the most impressive figure--but, there was something different about Nuriko; something that encircled this girl like a mist, made her seem like more than just another slave in an unattractive frock with flour on her nose.   
  
He'd noticed that Something More immediately, of course. When a person spends eleven years of his life in the company of nearly all males, he learns to survey the opposite sex with an urgent kind of pre-selection; those that stick out to him, he leaps for with every ounce of passion he possesses. Those that don't, he doesn't bother with.  
  
Nuriko stuck out, of that he was sure. And, why shouldn't she? She was beautiful, intelligent, moved with the grace of a dancer, and had the uncanny ability to look at him and completely unravel his thoughts and perceptions. Standing before this girl was like exposing the innermost parts of his heart and soul to her scrutiny--and, yet, unlike Yui, Nuriko was not unkind about this knowledge. He'd only spoken with her a few times, since he'd been home for such a short time, but each time they'd spoken, it felt as if he'd lost and gained something very important; something magical, perhaps. Nuriko stole the words from his lips, the thoughts from his mind, the tremors from his heart--but, she gave of herself in return, and he walked away from her each time feeling richer than before.  
  
  
Something touched lightly at his shoulder. Startled, Hotohori straightened, realizing with a bit of a blush that he'd been leaning here against the banister for several minutes, now, in clear view of the kitchen and the entryway, and argggh. He turned and found Miaka standing just behind him, plump and pleasant and sucking sugar from her fingers. "Hotohori!" she exclaimed, voice muffled by the presence of the finger in her mouth. "I'm so glad you're back for good! You hungry? Want some food? I can make you some! Come on, come on!"  
  
Smiling, Hotohori let himself be dragged, more glad than he could really fathom that he was at home again, and that home--despite a few welcome additions to the kitchen staff--had not changed. Of course, Miaka was a little older, now; a few more lines around the jolly brown of her face, a few more inches to the round of her waist--but, she was still Miaka. Still eating, still speaking like the whites she'd grown up around, still--he winced as her elbow slammed into the vase just inside the kitchen doorway, sent it crashing to the ground--just as clutzy as ever.  
  
Miaka brought a hand to her mouth, somehow managed to pull off a girlish giggle without it sounding forced or...well, out of place. "Oops," she said. Her dark eyes flickered to the scattered remains of the vase. "That's the third one. I hope Ta--err, I hope the Master isn't mad."  
  
Hotohori stared at the woman for a long moment, taking in the strange, childish hairstyle (dark brown hair, piled into small buns that rested on either side of her head like giant meatballs), the wide dark eyes, the aged immaturity that surrounded Miaka just as that Something More enveloped her younger companion. //I can see why he loves her,\\ he reflected wistfully. //Even if it's scandalous, even if Nakago would probably take the plantation away from him for it, I can see why.\\  
  
"You don't have to pretend with me, Miaka," he said quietly. "I've known for a long time about...about you and my father."  
  
Miaka's eyes went wide. "I-I don't know what you're talking about, but--" She bustled to the nearby cupboard, flung it open, and pulled free a sack of flour. "--I'm gonna make you some pancakes!"  
  
He opened his mouth again, ready to insist that it was all right, he knew all about them and it didn't matter to him...but, the words melted from his lips as a soft voice echoed from behind him.  
  
"I wouldn't let her do that," Nuriko said wryly, her slim form leaning lightly against the doorframe. "You haven't been back for long enough to taste Miaka's cooking, but..." She wrinkled her nose.  
  
Miaka turned to face the girl looking offended, but the tone of her voice easily gave it away as an act. Her hands balled into fists, slammed onto her widening hips. "I," she brayed, "am the head of the kitchen! Why would I be in charge of the kitchen if I couldn't cook?"  
  
Nuriko's eye ducked into a wink. "Don't play dumb, Miaka. You know why just as well as I do."  
  
Miaka nodded proudly. "All right, fine! I'm tired of hiding!" Her fists relaxed, then smoothed down over her hips and slid them forwards in a slow circle. "It's my figure!" she announced, returning the wink. "What man could help himself?"  
  
Nuriko grinned. "At least one, I'm sure." Her eyes, which he'd discovered were a startling shade of brown tinged with violet, flickered suddenly onto him. "Right?"  
  
For a long moment, he couldn't speak, caught breathless by the intensity of those eyes upon him...and, then, he regained his composure, offered a slight smile. "Actually," he began slowly, well aware of the blush that crept into his cheeks, "when I was younger--"  
  
Miaka laughed, cutting through the words before he had a chance to say any more. "Ha, see there? It's true. I am irresistable!"  
  
"Not when you're making pancakes, you're not." Nuriko slid forward and, shooing at the older woman with her hands, stepped into place behind the counter. "Here, give me that. I'll make them."  
  
Knowing she'd lost, Miaka relinquished the sack of flour without much argument--but, she still made sure to slam it hard into Nuriko's hands before she left. A great cloud of flour exploded from the sack, sputtered onto the girl's face. Suddenly finding herself bathed in powdery white, Nuriko sneezed.  
  
"Bless you," Hotohori offered. Then, he slid forward and--fingers trembling only slightly--set to work brushing the flour from Nuriko's face, dabbing at the smooth brown skin with the sleeve of his shirt and trying to remember why it was bad for a white boy to get involved with a slave...  
  
Nuriko, as if she'd been struck, slid suddenly back from his touch. Her hand went to her cheek, so abruptly that he was afraid that he'd somehow hurt her, but, of course, that was ridiculous. All he'd done was try to help her to clean the flour from her face, that was all! And, yet, she was standing there with her back against the counter, hand pressed to her flour-spotted cheek, eyes wide and dark like something had scared her.   
  
Hotohori frowned. "N...Nuriko? What's wrong?"  
  
Nuriko looked suddenly pale, but she shook her head. "I-It's nothing," she murmured. "I'm...I'm sorry. I'll make those pancakes, now, sir."  
  
Sir? Granted, they'd only just met...but, the kitchen staff was always so familiar with him. Why...why, Nuriko herself had called him Hotohori yesterday--hadn't she? He couldn't remember...  
  
"Nuriko? Please, what is it? Did I do something wrong?"  
  
The girl stared up at him from where she'd been patting at the flour, and he was shocked to find a sheen of tears welling behind the darkness of her eyelashes. "No," she whispered. "I did. I'm sorry, I'll go get Miaka to make you those pancakes."  
  
She was gone before he could even think of what to say.  
  
~*~  
  
Nuriko slammed the Quarters door shut behind him, closed his eyes, and leaned his back against the wood.  
  
//It was bound to happen. Spend too much time pretending you're something, and, Lord above, you'll become it.\\  
  
He slid silently down the door, touched against the wooden floorboards and wrapped his arms around his knees. Lord, it was bad enough, him being a slave and Hotohori being Tamahome's son, but good God! What the hell was he even -thinking-, flirting with him like that??   
  
"You're going to get your dress all dirty."  
  
The words snapped him from his thoughts, made him sit up straight and stare out into the room with wide, shocked eyes. The Quarters themselves, located in the back of the House for the benefit of the Kitchen Slaves, were relatively small, equipped with a collection of blanketed cots, a few spare chairs, and a table with a small wash basin. He'd thought he'd checked the room before he'd come in, made sure he was alone...but, sure enough, there was Miaka, sitting on the edge of her bed with a piece of corn bread crumbling in her fingers.  
  
"Hell's bells," Nuriko murmured, strangling back the tears. "Don't you ever stop eating, Miaka?"  
  
Miaka didn't smile, though. She stood up, dropped the corn bread lightly on the edge of the table, and moved with a swish of skirts to his side. A moment later, she was sitting beside him, her presence warm and comforting against the darkness stirring in his heart.  
  
"It's all right," Miaka said softly. "I know what it feels like. At first...I was so sure that I was -wrong- to feel like I did, and so I ignored it, but..." Her words faded. "But, it didn't go away."  
  
Nuriko glanced at the older woman, thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "You and Tamahome," he said quietly.  
  
Miaka nodded. "Mm-hm. It was a few years ago, just after Hotohori left for the boarding school. I...I thought he was only spending so much time in the kitchen because he liked to eat as much as I did, but...we -talked-, Nuriko. We talked about everything, and even though I wasn't as smart as he was, he never made me feel like I wasn't, or like I was a slave. I was just...just a woman when I was with Tamahome." Her eyes glittered. "A free woman."  
  
Nuriko felt something dark clench in his stomach. That was it. That was what he'd felt with Hotohori--freedom. Equality. Lord, no wonder he'd been attracted to it! And, yet, there was still a question weighing on his mind, one he'd never had the courage or the inclination to ask before. "What about Soi? Did...did she ever find out about the two of you?"  
  
Miaka's voice was soft. "I don't know. She hides it, if she knows." Despite the fact that they were clearly alone in the room, Miaka leaned forward, glanced from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers. "You know," she whispered, "I've heard tell around the slave quarters down by the fields that that Yui child might not be his. I mean, isn't it peculiar, both of them having dark hair, and she's blond-haired, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed?"  
  
Nuriko felt his eyes widen. "Y...You mean...Nakago??"  
  
"That's what I heard. Course, there's no proof or anything, but..." She shrugged. "Well, anyway, Hotohori's probably waiting for his pancakes. Are you...?"  
  
Suddenly finding himself broken from the distraction of the story and plunged knee-deep back into his own problems, Nuriko sighed. "Yeah, I'll go." With a low groan, he pushed himself back onto his feet, stood.   
  
Miaka was scowling up at him. "Hey, don't just leave me. I'll be stuck down here all day."  
  
With a smile, Nuriko reached down a hand, grasped onto Miaka's fingers, and tugged the woman easily to her feet. During the brief moment they stood face to face, he leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and then stepped back. "Thank you," he murmured. "You always make me feel better." He smiled. "Even if you are a glutton."  
  
Miaka only smiled, and so he turned, tugged open the door, and made his way back to the kitchen.   
  
~*~  
  
AN: Yaaaaaaay. Close, chapter one. Phew, that was kind of long! -_-;;; Anyway, I have to take a five minute shower and run off to class in a few minutes, so I don't have much time for proofreading. Due to that, please ignore any and all typos and obvious grammatical mistakes. I'll fix them when I return. ^_~. Ah, and as for "hell's bells," it's historically appropriate, damn it!! At least, er...that's what Huck says in Disney's "The Adventures of Huck Finn," and by golly, that's good enough for me. *firm nod* 


	3. Chapter Two: Fields of Crimson Grasses

---  
  
Shadows of the South  
  
Chapter Two: Fields of Crimson Grasses  
  
~*~  
  
He brought the whip down hard, feeling surprisingly-little as the slave screamed and writhed beneath him, and watched as a thin line of blood traced its way onto the boy's back. It was strange, how this mere act of power and punishment had intoxicated him once, when he was a younger, different man. Vengeance, the only way he knew how... Now, it was little more than a habit, a convenient way of keeping the men in line while still clinging to the elusive strands of his youth in the process. But, did it give him that dark, bloodied satisfaction anymore? Did it make him smile, seeing them scream beneath him like cows at the slaughter?  
  
His first impulse was, of course, to say no. Of course not. Why would it?   
  
But, at the same time, he knew that somewhere deep within, he -did- enjoy it, that inside he longed for the violence with something hungry and frenzied. Or, perhaps, it was the power that he desired; the satisfaction of knowing that these men feared him; that they watched his every move with wide eyes and a longing to please so great that it often got in the way of survival itself. He'd seen one man, nearly-unconscious with flu, nonetheless drag himself to the fields and work tirelessly in the scathing sunlight for hours, just to avoid the trauma of his wrath. The man, of course, hadn't made it very far before he collapsed and eventually died, but Nakago had been more than a little impressed by the display.   
  
Devoted followers, cringing beneath his every word, lowering their eyes when they spoke to him; fearing him for his vicious whip; loving him for his spare, true words of praise. Perhaps one never outgrew the intoxication of that kind of power, he reflected, bringing the whip down one last time. The boy, a lithe teenager he'd heard a few other slaves call "Suboshi," gave one last cry as the pain lanced through him. And, then, realizing that the punishment was over, the boy went limp on the ground and spent a long moment gasping for breath. His dark, smooth-skinned back was bright with crimson, lined and cracked from the beating, but the boy recovered surprisingly-well. Only a few moments later, he crawled to his feet, completely of his own volition, and stared up at Nakago with something like challenge in his eyes.  
  
"I deserved it," he said, his words slow and halting, as if he were putting every ounce of his willpower into the forming of each syllable. "But, it won't happen again."  
  
He knew, of course, what the boy meant--but, for some reason even he himself didn't understand, he merely nodded, said, "See that it doesn't," and then walked away.   
  
"Master!"  
  
He skidded to a halt, startled and beginning to get angry, and turned slowly back to face the boy. Suboshi stood slightly-hunched, the sunlight stinging down against the wounds on his back, his sun-lightened hair fluttering down over slim-boned, cherubish features. His hands were clasped together a bit rigidly in front of him, and there was something almost...crazed about the look to his eyes. But, something desperate, also. Desperate and...unafraid.   
  
"I didn't mean that," he continued in the same halting tenor. "I meant...you won't whip me again."  
  
//I know what you meant, you fool!\\  
  
"Indeed," Nakago rumbled. "And, why is that?"  
  
The boy didn't blanch. Instead, he drew in a deep breath, forced his clenching hands to relax at his sides, and then covered the distance between them in a few graceful strides. "Because," he said, and his strange, bluish eyes seemed to glow with something otherworldly for a moment. "I'm being freed."  
  
Nakago stared at the boy for a long moment in stunned silence, eyes just slightly widened--and, then, he laughed, a long, mocking laugh that made several nearby slaves wince. "Freed?" he echoed. "And, who would want to free a worthless boy like you?"  
  
Suboshi's nose rose a few inches. "Mister Abraham Lincoln, that's who." The boy's words, no longer halting or unsure, rose suddenly into passionate shouts, echoing with surprising volume from the distant trees. "Mr. Lincoln an' his armies are gonna free us all! They're gonna come on down through the South and set us free! And, we won't ever have to work in the fields or be whipped again! We'll be free! Free!"  
  
A thin smile touched the blond man's lips. "What beautiful bullshit," he murmured. Feeling the reigns of control sliding back into his grasp, he turned, regarded the men who still worked tirelessly in the rows of cotton, no doubt pretending to be oblivious of the conversation. "Well?" he shouted to them. "Who thinks Mister Abraham Lincoln--" His voice soared into a cruel mimic of the boy's voice. "--is going to swoop down from the Heavens and save you all? Well? Answer me! Who?"  
  
After a long enough pause for it to be obvious that no one was going to speak, he turned back to Suboshi, triumph glowing like a flame in his eyes, and regarded the boy soberly. "It seems," he murmured, "that you stand alone."  
  
But, still, the boy did not back down. "You'll see," he said, and his voice was so low that Nakago almost couldn't hear it. "When they come, they'll kill you. Kill you and free us all. You'll see." And, then, he turned and stalked back to his place among the other workers, and started to rip at the nearest cotton plant like a man possessed.  
  
Nakago watched him, puzzled and strangely intrigued. The boy would have to be whipped again, of course--but, despite the necessity of the punishment, it was almost...refreshing to see this one lone boy, passionate and unafraid, speaking out against the voice of authority; shaking his fist at the god who could destroy him with a thought. Perhaps, he was reminded a bit of himself, he reflected. The sudden image of a slight, blond-haired boy flitted into his mind, and he watched inwardly as the boy fought back against the hands that groped for him; pushed away the longing eyes that turned, again and again, to the wide-eyed, golden beauty that shadowed him like a curse.   
  
He shook his head, then, putting thoughts of childhood and boarding school far from his mind, and returned his attention to the present. A few moments later, he'd dragged Suboshi out into the clearing and was slashing at him again--couldn't let the boy think he'd won, after all. He was secretly pleased to find that, despite the agony he must be in, the boy did not cry out.   
  
//Honor, even among the filthiest of dogs.\\  
  
~*~  
  
They'd just finished rinsing the last of the supper dishes when, so soft it nearly went unheard, there came a gentle tap on the window. After a quick glance out into the dining room to ensure that no one had heard, Nuriko slipped to the far window, tucked his fingers beneath the sill, and heaved it open. The daylight was fading rapidly, smoothing the rolling fields into a blanket of darkness, but enough light remained for the figure just outside to be both visible and recognizable.   
  
Nuriko's eyes widened. "Amiboshi," he hissed. "Are you crazy? What're you doing here?"  
  
The boy, the wide blue eyes he and his twin shared leveled just above the sill, spoke in a harsh whisper. His voice was thick with urgency. "I need Mitsukake," he said. "It's...it's Suboshi. I-I was sick today and I needed to lie down for awhile, but I couldn't because of Master Nakago, but Suboshi said he'd take care of it, and..." The boy trailed off, head shaking almost violently. "Nakago beat him bad, Nuriko. Please. I-I'm afraid he might--" His words cut off, abruptly, as if he couldn't bear to say the words. "Please, get Mitsukake!"  
  
The sixteen-year-old winced. "He's not here. Tamahome took him into the city a few hours ago. They're not due back until morning."  
  
Amiboshi's eyes went dark--his features paled in anguish. "But...but, by then--"  
  
Nuriko's eyes slid closed. "I'm sorry. You know if I knew anything about medicine I'd help, but I--"  
  
Whether it was Miaka's gasp or the sudden thud of riding boots against the floor, he never knew. But, whatever the case, Nuriko broke off, spun around, and found himself face to face with the amber-eyed son of his master, his skin smooth and bronze in the dying light.   
  
"Perhaps, I can help," Hotohori said softly. He was clad in a silken, cream-colored shirt topped with a vest of embroidered velvet, his slim legs wrapped in some dark, form-fitting fabric. His eyes were warm and golden, soft as candlelight through the darkness. "I'm not as knowledgeable as Mitsukake, but...I may be able to help."  
  
The breath seemed to have fled his lungs. "But...but, Nakago--" he managed.  
  
"Is my uncle," Hotohori murmured, "nothing more." And, then, lifting his eyes to the wide-eyed boy outside the window: "Take me to him. I'll see what I can do."  
  
~*~ 


End file.
